


Homecoming

by HoodedAndromeda



Category: The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (Movies)
Genre: After Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Angst, Before Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2, Brother Feels, Brother Relationships, Brotherly Angst, Brothers, Chop Top - Freeform, Dealing With Loss, Family, Family Feels, Family Relationships - Freeform, Feels, Grief/Mourning, Leatherface - Freeform, Loss, Movie: Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974), Movie: Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2 (1986), The Hitchhiker - Freeform, Veterans, Vietnam, Vietnam War, sibling relationships, the cook - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:34:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22874074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HoodedAndromeda/pseuds/HoodedAndromeda
Summary: "Bobby had known immediately that something terrible must've happened to get a letter from Drayton. He just never would've dreamt Drayton would be writing to tell him that Nubbins was dead. Reading that letter had hurt just as bad as taking a machete to the head.Maybe worse."***Chop Top finally comes home.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 30





	Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

> Alternate Title: "Chop Top Gets Sentimental"

_Bobby,_

_I got sum bad news ur brothers got therselves in trubl. They was runing round in the road like acoupl shitferbrains Bubba cut his leg prety good with a saw dont no how that dum sumbitch did that to bad he cant talk rite to tell me how it hapened. I got him patched up good hes gonbe fine in acoupl days._

_Nubbins got hit bye a truck anit crushed his hole chest. He died befor Bubba cood git him home. U beter git ur ass home safe I cant take carea Bubba and Grampa bye myself._

_Best,_

_Drayton_

***

Bobby stared through the greasy windshield at thin yellow clouds smeared across the early morning sky. If he relaxed his eyes, let his vision blur, he couldn't see the difference between the clouds and the handprints on the glass. The brownish dust kicked up by the truck's tires only added to the illusion that everything was made up of dirt-colored smudges.

Drayton cleared his throat, and Bobby tore his gaze from the random pattern of fingerprints streaked across the windshield. He watched his older brother expectantly, waiting for him to speak. Drayton hadn't said a word yet. He hadn’t even said "hello" when Bobby opened the passenger side door and climbed inside the cab. Drayton remained silent, pale eyes trained on the old dirt road. Bobby sighed through his nose and looked back at the dirty windshield.

  
Not even a "hello".

If the radio hadn't been left on, Bobby would've thought that Drayton was ignoring him altogether. He couldn't remember a single time in his life where Drayton had turned on the radio in his truck. The sound was tinny, staticky, but Bobby was grateful for the weak sound sputtering out of the speakers. It was a relief to have something to listen to other than silence into the uncomfortably stale interior of the little white pickup truck.

Nubbins had given Bobby a music recommendation in almost every letter, stuff to listen to listen to when he got home—or the next time he had access to a radio, which was more often than Nubbins realized. But Bobby never bothered to tell his twin that he did actually get to listen to music most weeks. He liked thinking that when he got home, he’d sit in his room with Bubba and Nubbins and wait for something they'd thought he'd like to come on the radio. And then they’d all listen together.

He had also liked thinking that all three of his brothers would pick him up when he got back, or at least Drayton and Nubbins if Bubba was still too scared to leave the property. Bobby hadn't even noticed that while he was thinking, his hand had drifted from his lap to his scalp, scratching absently at the pinkish, half-healed skin around his plate until Drayton hit a pothole head-on. Bobby hissed in pain as his body lurched forward, his nails catching on the edge of the wound.

"Quit touchin' the damn thing, ya shithead," Drayton snapped, "yer gonna mess yerself up e'en more!"

"I-I-I wouldn't'a scratched it at all if you could drive fer shit!" Bobby gingerly pressed the heel of his hand against his plate, wincing under the pressure.

"I drive better’n you, so quit yer whinin'. An' keep yer hands offa yer head." Bobby rolled his eyes, crossing his arms and slumping back in his seat. He did his best to ignore the persistent itching and the slowly fading sting, instead worrying the sleeve of his uniform between his fingers. He kept his eyes trained out the passenger side window when Drayton spoke again.

"Yer, uh, yer brother's got a couple-a new faces. Takes some gettin' used ta. Nubbins was callin' 'im—"

"'Leatherface', I know it. Nubbins told me so. In his letters."

"Oh."

There was silence again, except for the distorted jazzy tune struggling its way through the old car radio. About a year after he'd been drafted, Bobby received a letter from Nubbins all about Bubba's new nickname. He'd remained as subtle as possible (a difficult feat for Nubbins) but said that Bubba's sewing and leathercrafting skills had been put to good use. Bobby could put the rest together himself. But no matter what Bubba was wearing on his head nowadays, Bobby would've been more surprised to hear that his little brother had quit wearing masks. He'd been covering his face for years now, probably at least since he was nineteen. He barely even let his own family see him without a mask.

The seemingly endless stretch of yellowed grass, old fences, and skinny telephone poles was finally interrupted by a familiar whitish building. The gas station needed a new roof and a fresh coat of paint, but even in its sad, droopy, peeling state the sight of it filled Bobby with relief.

"Almost home..." He whispered. Bobby stiffened when he felt two hesitant pats on his left knee. He turned to look at Drayton, prepped to ask what the hell that was all about. It was a rare occasion when Drayton touched his younger brothers, except for when he was hitting them. But the words died in Bobby's throat when he saw his brother’s face. Drayton's eyes were damp and shiny, and he was blinking furiously, trying to clear the water from his eyes.

  
Bobby hadn't seen Drayton cry since Grandma died.

Bobby swallowed and looked away, twisting the cuff of his sleeve between his thumb and forefinger. He and Drayton had never been close. Hell, they didn't even really get along. Sure, Bobby would kill and die for any of his brothers without question, but when it came to Drayton...

He fought with Nubbins and Bubba plenty. They pissed each other off all the time. But they always got over it, and they always knew they didn't mean one other any harm. When they were done being mad at each other, they could go for a drive, listen to the radio, see a movie, joke around. It was different with Drayton. It was like he never really stopped being mad at them.

Bobby had known immediately that something terrible must've happened to get a letter from Drayton. He just never would've dreamt Drayton would be writing to tell him that Nubbins was dead. Reading that letter had hurt just as bad as taking a fucking machete to the head.  
  
Maybe worse.

At last, the truck took a unnecessarily wide right and jerked to a stop in front of the farmhouse—which also looked a lot sadder than it had last time Bobby had seen it—and there, on the front porch waiting for him, were Bubba and Grandpa. Bubba was standing at the top of the stairs, bouncing with excitement, and Grandpa was slumped in his chair.

"Bubba's had ants 'n his pants all damn week," Drayton said, pulling the key from the ignition, "go on an' git outta th' truck 'fore he bursts." Bobby waved at his younger brother through the windshield and then opened the car door. His feet barely hit the ground before Bubba leapt from the steps and charged down the drive, squealing the whole way.

"Hey, Bubba!" Bobby held his arms open for the impending bearhug, quickly widening his stance to better brace himself for impact. Within seconds, Bobby was enveloped by Bubba's large arms and being lifted haphazardly off the ground. "Long time no, uh, no see, huh, buddy?" Bobby wheezed, patting Bubba on the back. He felt Bubba nod and then without warning, he exploded into sobs. "H-hey, now, don't ya go cryin' on me!" Bobby forced a shaky laugh, "I'm home now, Bubba. S'all good."

"BUBBA, put yer brother down 'fore ya break 'is fuckin' ribs!" Bubba immediately released Bobby, taking half a step backwards and rubbing his forearm over his nose as he sniffled. It was then that Bobby was finally able to see the mask clearly. It had once been the face of a woman with dark, curly hair. The spaces where the eyes used to be were painted blue, and what was left of the mouth was smeared with bright lipstick. He stood for a moment, taking in his brother's new face, then cleared his throat.

"I like yer mask, Bubba. Didja d-d-do th' makeup yerself?" Bubba sniffed again, then nodded.

"Uh-huh!"

"It looks damn good! I can tell ya been practicin'." Bubba began to babble, probably explaining in detail exactly how he had made the mask. The only word Bobby could make out was one of Bubba's favorites: "pretty."

"Uh-huh," Bobby agreed with a smile, "'s real pretty."

"He wears it fer special occasions," Drayton said, lifting Bobby's suitcase out of the truck bed. He lugged it dramatically over to where his two brothers were standing, then handed it over to Bobby, "I'm goin' on inside, gotta start up breakfast." Drayton shouldered past his younger brothers, heading up the drive and climbing the stairs. Bobby and Bubba watched as Drayton briefly paused to pat Grandpa on the shoulder before disappearing into the house. Bubba turned back to Bobby, tentatively reaching out his hand. He carefully brushed the skin surrounding the plate with his fingertips, whimpering with concern.

"Ah, nah, don't worry 'bout that, Bubba, it don't hurt much anymore. 'S mostly just itchy s'all," Bubba withdrew his hand, "y-y'know, some-a the guys was callin' me 'Chop Top'. Sounds—kinda sounds like somethin' Nubbins woulda come up with, don't it?" Bubba nodded enthusiastically, then pointed at his own face with a squeal. "Y-yeah, I heard he was was callin' you 'Leatherface.'" Bubba nodded again.

"Uh-huh, uh-huh!" Bobby's smile faltered.

"So, uh... so, uh, speakin'a Nubbins... whadidja do with him?" Bubba began worrying a silver charm bracelet around his wrist. He shuffled his feet, kicking up little clouds of dust, muttering something incomprehensible and gesturing vaguely toward the second floor of the house.

"Okay, I'll say hi ta Grandpa real quick, 'n then ya—then ya can show me." Bubba nodded, then took Bobby's free hand and began to lead him toward the porch. Bubba was so big now, a lot bigger than Bobby remembered even though he probably hadn't grown since last time they saw each other. Bobby found himself thinking back to when he was around twelve or thirteen—Bubba would've been about ten.

Drayton had started bringing him and Nubbins down to the station to help with the work from opening until about lunchtime once they turned ten. Their pa had done the same thing with Drayton before he ran off. It worked out alright most of the time, and Drayton had decided to start bringing Bubba along once he turned ten, too.

Bubba had always been a shy kid. When Grandma and Grandpa would have friends over, Bubba would hide behind Grandma or one of the twins for a long, long time before finally working up the courage to say hello. But no one had expected him to melt down like he did on his first day at the station. The tears and hiding were anticipated. The puking was not. Bubba had only been there an hour before Bobby made the decision to take him home.

They'd walked back to the house together, hand in hand, just like now, looking for bugs and flowers and rocks and any other shiny thing that would help Bubba forget all about his stressful morning. Drayton kept trying for about a month to get Bubba used to the station, but every single day either Bobby or Nubbins ended up walking him home long before lunchtime.

Sometimes Bobby wondered how Bubba managed to last four years at the slaughterhouse. All he knew is that it was a damn good thing Nubbins had been there to keep an eye on him. They paused on the porch, Bubba releasing Bobby’s hand. He gently placed his palm on Grandpa's shoulder. His head lolled toward Bobby and Bubba, and he looked up at them through dark, glassy eyes, blinking slowly in the growing light of morning.

"How're ya, Grandpa?" Grandpa's lips moved soundlessly, his wrinkled fingers twitching against his thighs. "Well, ya look great. Don't he look, uh, look great, Bubba? Let's getcha back inside." Bobby gently tousled the wispy white hair on Grandpa's head, then took half a step back. Bubba stepped in, turning Grandpa's chair around and lifting it up, tilting it back a little ways so that Grandpa wouldn’t slide forward and fall out of his seat. Bubba carried Grandpa through the open front door as Bobby followed behind. He stopped in the foyer, watching Bubba take Grandpa to the dining room, before turning his attention to the staircase. His eyes drifted upwards, following the path of the old wooden steps.

When Grandma died, they'd put her in her favorite chair and set her up in her and Grandpa's room. Now that Grandpa stayed in his own chair all the time and didn't use his bed, it was more of a storage space than a bedroom. There wasn’t even any furniture in there anymore except for the chairs, a wall clock, and a floor lamp. Bobby figured that Drayton probably put Nubbins there too. Part of him was tempted to haul-ass up the stairs and get it over with, just see Nubbins right then and there and have it out of the way. Part of him wanted to stay downstairs forever. Because if he went upstairs and saw Nubbins's body, then it would be real.

Bobby had been fully prepared to die in 'Nam. That was just part of the deal with war, you knew going in you might not come back. He'd come to terms with that. And he figured if he _did_ make it home, Grandpa might not be around anymore. Grandma had already been gone a long time by the time he'd been drafted. It had been horrible when she died, especially because she died so slowly, but grandchildren were supposed to outlive their grandparents. That was just nature. But outliving brothers?

Bobby hadn't realized that he was scratching his scalp again as he stared up the staircase until Bubba came back into the foyer and gently took hold of Bobby's wrist, moving his hand away from his head. Bubba placed his hands on his hips and began to scold Bobby, and Bobby knew Bubba was saying something along the lines of, "you shouldn't scratch because you could hurt yourself." It was a lecture Bobby, Nubbins, and Bubba had all been given about a thousand times by their grandparents about leaving mosquito bites and scabs alone because scratching them could leave scars. It was a little late to worry about scars now, though.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Bobby grumbled, waving Bubba off, "I know. I'll try 'n leave it be." Bubba hummed in satisfaction, then looked up the stairs and back at Bobby. He tilted his head to one side, clearly asking Bobby if he was ready to see Nubbins.

Bobby took a slow, shaky breath and nodded. He let Bubba take the lead, following him up the stairs and down the short hallway that ended at Grandma's room. They stopped at the door. Bobby bent down to set his suitcase down on the ground, leaning it against the wall. He straightened up and reached for the doorknob but couldn’t bring himself to actually grab it and open the door. The two brothers stood silently side by side for a few heartbeats, Bobby's hand shaking as it hovered over the doorknob.

He felt sick, like he might throw up at any moment, and although he was glad for Bubba's company, he found himself gripped with a new desire to be left alone, at least for a few minutes. He had no way of knowing just how bad it was going to be. All Drayton had said was that Nubbins had been run over and that his chest had been crushed. If Nubbins was nothing but a smear of gore, Bobby wasn't sure he wanted Bubba to see him react to... that.

"H-hey, uh, Bubba? Ya cool if I go on in by m'self? I-I-I just..." Bubba patted Bobby reassuringly on the arm, then turned and left. Bobby listened to Bubba's bootsteps fade as he walked back down the hall and descended the stairs. Once it had been quiet long enough, Bobby held his breath, grabbed the doorknob, and whipped the door open. He kept his eyes trained on the warped hardwood floor as he hurried into the mostly empty room and headed straight for the spot where Grandma's chair had been kept for the past ten years.

He was shaking. Bobby paused in front of Grandma, raising his head to meet her cloudy eyes. He gently brushed a few loose strands of hair out of her face with trembling fingers.

"H-hey, Grandma," he said softly, "how're ya?" He swallowed, "you been loo-lookin' after Nubbins?" Bobby shoved his hands in his pockets, clenching them into fists and forcing himself to look to Grandma's left where he could see a body out of the corner of his eye. Nubbins was propped up in a chair beside her, his arms positioned so that his hands rested on his thighs. His head was slumped forward, so his chin rested against his chest. There were dark road burns seared up and down the left side of his face, from the corner of his mouth to his temple. They almost looked black against his dry, grey skin. His mouth was stuck open, jaw awkwardly twisted to one side, and Bobby could see that a few of Nubbins's teeth were missing.

"W-well, ya look like, uh, like shit." Bobby chuckled weakly. He half expected Nubbins to retaliate, to tell him he didn’t look much better. When Bobby was met with silence, he became overwhelmed with an unexpected surge of anger.

"The _fuck_ were ya thinkin’," Bobby tore his hands free from his pockets and threw them up in the air, "runnin' inta the road? That's little kid shit! Ya know better'n that." He began pacing back and forth in front of the two chairs, taking hard, heavy steps. "Lookit—look what that fuckin' truck did ta ya. Drayton's letter said it crushed yer whole damn ch—yer whooole chest! And—and—and Bubba was with you?!" Bobby shook his head.

"Goddamn, Nubbins," he spat, "dontcha remember us losin' our minds that time Bubba ran out inta the street when he was little?" He began scratching furiously at his plate, "ya think jus' 'cause yer grown ya can't get fucked up by some, uh, some uh, some asshole driver who ain't payin' attention? _Fuck!_ " Bobby stopped pacing and sat down heavily on the floor directly across from Nubbins's chair. "That's a shitty thing ta do, Nubbs," he muttered, "lettin' yer little brother watch ya get squished 'n then makin' him carry ya home." He flinched as he felt his fingernails reopen the scratches on his scalp from earlier that morning.

"We ha-had plans, man,” he sniffled, “we had shit to do. We—" Bobby swallowed, trying to steady his shaking voice. The last thing he needed was for Bubba to come back upstairs to check on him and catch him crying. If Bubba saw him crying, then he would start crying too, and it would just be one big fucking mess. Bobby cleared his throat, then wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. It wasn’t worth being upset. Being upset wasn’t going to bring Nubbins back to life. This was just something he was going to have to live with.

"Well, anyway," he sighed, "I guess it don't really matter now. Little late fer lecturin’." He forced a smile. "I can't really talk neither. Look at me, huh?" He gestured at his plate, "look at this... fuckin' thing," He looked down at his lap, "got a new nickname o'er it. ‘Chop Top’. 'S kinda badass, ain't it? Told Bubba it sounds like somethin' you'd'a come up with, you 'n yer... nicknamin' everythin'." Bobby sighed.

"Shit fuckin' timin', though, if I was gonna get got it shoulda happened a couple-a years back 'cause they're sendin' e'eryone on home now anyways. A’int that just my luck." He went quiet for a moment. The room was completely silent except for the ticking of a wall clock. Bobby could just make out the sound of Bubba and Drayton banging around downstairs, and he could smell the scent of bacon— _real_ bacon—and coffee drifting up from the kitchen.

“Thanks fer writin’ me, by the way,” Bobby said, looking back up at Nubbins, “it was cool’a ya ta do that.” He had saved every single letter that Nubbins and Bubba had sent. He had folded them up into skinny little rectangles so they would fit in his suitcase with all of his other shit. He’d even saved his one letter from Drayton. “’Course, I couldn’t read what you was sayin’ half the time,” Bobby felt himself grin, “ya got the shittiest handwritin’ I’ve _e’er_ seen!” He pushed himself up off the floor with a short, barking laugh. That sick feeling that had overwhelmed him the moment he came up the stairs was finally beginning to fade. Bobby stretched his arms over his head, groaning softly.

“I know ya asked me ta, uh, bring ya back s-somethin’ cool,” he said, “but, uh, there weren’t really nothin’ worth bringin’ home.” He adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves, which had twisted when he stretched. “Actually…” he looked at the sleeves of his uniform jacket, then at Nubbins’s road rash-covered arms, “how ‘bout this.”

Bobby slipped off his jacket and stepped closer to the chair. He carefully pushed Nubbins’s back away from the chair and draped the jacket around his shoulders. It was strange how light how felt, how easy he was to move around. Bobby gently pulled Nubbins’s limp arms through the sleeves of the jacket. One of the cuffs caught on Nubbins’s right wrist.

“Gonna m-m-make ya look like a hero.” Bobby mumbled. He wasn’t exactly sure why he’d said it—wearing that uniform had never made _him_ feel like a hero, after all. Once Bobby managed to get Nubbins’s hand through the sleeve, he saw what it had gotten caught on. It was a bracelet Nubbins had made himself: some wooden beads and a few pieces of vertebrae with holes drilled in the middle strung on a piece of wire. Nubbins hadn’t really been one for accessories like Bobby and Bubba, but he loved that damn bracelet. He never took it off. Bobby stared at the string of beads and bones, his fingers twitching over Nubbins’s arm.

“…Trade?” Bobby waited for Nubbins to answer before remembering that he wouldn’t. Bobby slipped the bracelet over Nubbins’s hand. “Thanks,” he muttered, putting the homemade jewelry on his own wrist, “I’ll take good care of it. ‘Kay? Promise.” He ran his thumb absent-mindedly over the bones, looking past Nubbins and at the room’s single window, which was covered with a sheet instead of a curtain. It was a shame they couldn’t let the sun into the little. It would’ve been nice to give Nubbins and Grandma something to look at besides peeling wallpaper. Bobby sighed.

“Should pr-probably get changed ‘n then go back downstairs ‘fore Drayton starts pitchin’ a fit. Give me shit fer lettin’ my food get cold.” He turned around to look at the open door and hoped that no one had heard him laying into Nubbins earlier. “We’ll hang after I catch up with Bubba. Listen to the radio, maybe, see if there’s anythin’ good playin’. Sound good?” He hesitated for a moment, then turned on his heel and headed for the door.

“L-later, Nubbins.”

**Author's Note:**

> After we noticed that the corpse of Nubbins in TCM2 is wearing an army jacket, and that Chop Top is wearing the same bracelet that Nubbins wore in TCM, my best friend suggested I write about that. I hope you guys like it! This is my first TCM fic, so I'm a little nervous about it, but overall I'm really happy with how it turned out.


End file.
